


Tenth Doctor Drabbles

by orange_crushed



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that he can almost never tell what time it is. The fact that he can't run three miles without stopping for air anymore.</p><p>Well, two miles. One-and-a-half. Damn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenth Doctor Drabbles

**History shmistory.**

"And then he says- he leans over with this fantastic expression, all six rows of teeth glinting in the sunshine- and he says, isn't that a bit like rearranging deck chairs on the-" he almost finishes, before Rose stomps down on his foot under the dinner table and he goes nearly nose-to-nose with the cream of barley soup. "Sorry," he coughs, spitting small flecks of garnish across the water glasses. "Forgot my manners." He recovers with a charming smile and several diamond-studded old ladies swoon. "Not really a joke for mixed company."

Later there is dancing, which Rose refuses, and cocktails, which she turns aside with a positively steely glare. He does not make the mistake of asking after her human woman biology, as he is not a very strong swimmer. Instead, he creates an elaborate diversion and locks them both into the bridge for some privacy, while several people in uniforms pound and shout outside. Rose looks oddly relieved.

"Finally," she says, glancing at the instrument panels. "Which one turns it around ?"

"Turns it around ?" He gapes for a moment, and then his very large brain connects the evening. "Oh, Rose," he says, quite overwhelmed with affection and sadness. "Rose, we can't."

"Can't what ?" She pulls a lever and a bell rings shrilly above them. "Whoops."

"Can't turn it around," he says, gently. He takes both of her hands in his, and she stills. It's a lethal kind of stillness, probably, but he rubs small circles on the backs of her palms. "Not the _Titanic._ Rose, this is history. I'm sorry we ended up here, it was a rotten mistake, because we have to go, and things have to stay the way they- hang on, what's that ?" They look out of the front windows together at a very large, very metallic, very game-changing ship bearing down on them from midair. There's a crowd of creatures on the top deck; it's still too far away to make out individual faces, but several seem to be firing lasers into the air.

Rose, bless her, doesn't even blink.

"So-"

"Turning it around," he says, with relish, and puts his foot up on the wheel.

 

 **The naturalist.**

Atlantic City is a very good place for a lot of things, but today it is mostly remarkable for hot dogs, sunburns, and losing your wallet. He stares down into the four-dimensional void of his jacket pocket and scowls.

"I'll pay," says Rose, breezily. There is zinc oxide on her nose, which she's been referring to as period-appropriate camouflage. It is nineteen eighty-nine and she is filling out a neon green bathing suit and jean shorts and twisting a side ponytail around and around in a way that makes even his superior nerves a little dizzy. She tips at the counter and slides into a plastic chair next to him, already knuckle-deep in the cheese fries. "I'm starving," she says, and three people turn to look at her accent.

They finish the fries outside, on the boardwalk; the last ones in the paper tray barely have any cheese at all on them, and so Rose tosses them over the edge of the rail to the seagulls circling overhead and and the more timid birds waiting below. They watch the gulls eat and fight and chase each other around in circles. "It's like watching people," says Rose. "He's scrappy." She points to the scrawniest bird, who is trying to stuff two fries in his mouth and defend his territory at the same time. "I like that one."

"You would." He wags a mock-stern finger. "And, no. No birds on the TARDIS. I tried that once with Thoreau. It only got me bit and pooped on."

"I promise it'll be different this time," says Rose. She surely means one thing and he hears about a million other possibilities. He wants them all. Terribly. Her eyes shimmer, like the water; like the star that heats the air and pulls the earth around sideways.

"No birds," he says, and turns his face away.

 

 **Former glory.**

"One-twenty over eighty," the young nurse says, fingers nervously chattering like teeth as he pulls the velco band off of the Doctor's arm. "That's g-g-good, right ?" He looks up at the Master, who is sitting cross-legged on the examination table and scowling at the Doctor as if that act could set the other man's eyebrows on fire. The nurse swallows, anxiously. "N-n-now will you let my family go ?"

"What ?" The Master looks back at him. He waves one hand, idly. "Oh. I never had them to begin with. Go, go on, get out of here." Alone, they stare at one another for a long minute, the Doctor's arms folded over his chest. He clears his throat.

"Convinced ?"

"X-rays !" the Master suddenly shouts, prodding him into the hall at the end of the laser screwdriver. The Doctor doesn't complain as they make their way down the corridor; he does, however, make the wrong turn, towards pediatrics, where he hopes he will be able to distract the Master with a clown or a television set. Anyway. "X-rays. That'll- you've got a chip or a- a thingy. Inhibitor. Gene dampener. Chameleon circuit ?" he asks, voice raising slightly in hysteria.

"Human," says the Doctor, placidly. "Still human. Was human yesterday, human today, and probably-"

"X-RAYS," says the Master again. He shoves the Doctor through a set of double-doors. "And when I find out why you're tricking me-" he begins, only to be met full on the mouth by a plastic chairback. He bounces backwards, floundering slightly like a fish, and lies very still on the floor of the children's ward, breathing awkwardly through his mouth. Rose, holding the chair, cocks her head to look down at him.

"I thought he'd be taller," she says.

"He was once," says the Doctor.

 

 **Public eye.**

"Perception filters," she says to him, much later, when he has wandered away from that painful series of stories and is sitting miserably over a tub of chocolate ice cream. He smiles at her interest, and brightens like a firefly. "You said they work on people, do they work on technology too ?"

"Oh, yes." He says, eagerly. "Photographs- have you ever noticed a blur at the edge of the photograph that you swear wasn't there when you took it ? Well, most of the time it was there, and your human eyeballs just can't-" he pauses. "Er, your _wonderful_ human eyeballs don't see it. But sometimes it's a perception filter. Same goes for surveillance systems, video cameras-"

"Store security feeds ?" asks Rose, abruptly. She is trying very hard to look nonchalant and failing. It's that magnificent petal-colored mouth, twitching at the corners with mirth and interest. He is suddenly aware of the chill of the ice cream on his lap and the distinct not-chill of the lap itself.

"Of course," he says, innocently. This answer is of course how he eventually finds himself pushed up against a rack of sale slacks after closing at Henrik's, the Henrik's on this side of the universes that was never blown up and was also never before graced with the person of one Rose Tyler, Blouse-Folder Supreme. "Is this a thing ?" he asks her, as she slides a hand up his shirt, carefully not disturbing the perception filter and its series of wires and buttons dangling around his neck. "Is this a human thing that I should know about ? Taking my clothes off in- ah- ah, in shops ?" She licks quite seriously at the side of his neck and he stares up at a 30% off sign in rapture, forgetting the question.

"Just one shop. The girls and I, we had a dare going... seems like a million years ago." There is a touch of a giggle lurking in her voice. "The cameras really can't see us ?"

"They really can't," he says, gratefully. It's a good thing, too. Because-

-well.

 

 **To err is human.**

There are things that are too strange, now, to be anything but the human bits; the rubbery-cold feet when he sits on the edge of the bathtub too long, reading her magazines when she's not looking; the phantom taste of overcooked carrots and the ensuing gag reflex; the way his solitary heart beats more slowly, and then more quickly, when she enters a room. The fact that he can almost never tell what time it is. The fact that he can't run three miles without stopping for air anymore.

Well, two miles. One-and-a-half. Damn.

But it's still up there, ticking away, his brain. He clings to that. He can still assemble a sonic manipulator out of a car stereo system and a waffle iron. He can still draw a map of the Calufrax system on a bar napkin. He can recite the eleventy-hundred High Chancellors of Plompt, sober or drunk, though the accompanying dance is better done sober. He can still take joy in things that are new and things that are old, and things that are hers, and more recently things that are theirs.

He doesn't always get it quite right.

"You said Vienna sausages."

"No, I didn't," Rose sighs, with a tin in each hand and an exasperated expression between them. "I said Vienna _fingers_. Fingers." She hands him one tin and waggles her digits at him for good measure; he examines the label.

"They look like fingers," he suggests. "You could even put little slices of onion on them to look like nails."

"Oh, _ew_." She shoves the second tin at him, disgusted, and they stare at each other for a moment. He gestures with the cans like he's about to take up juggling and she laughs, stills him with her hands on his wrists. She leans forward and presses a kiss to his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he says, automatically. "I didn't get it right." She gives him a funny look and takes the tins away from him, sets them on the counter and then leans against it, pulling him closer by his trouser pockets. He shivers, delighted.

"There's such a thing," says Rose, "as marks for effort."

Humanity is growing on him.

**Author's Note:**

> These were written as birthday drabbles for my lovely flist in May of 2009.


End file.
